13

“WHAT’S WRONG?” JACKSON knew when Miranda slammed the shower door shut that trouble had returned tenfold.

She was caught up in a violent shiver.

“Babe, talk to me.”

Teeth chattering, she shook her head. “I-I’m done. I-I want my life back.”

Before he could stop her, she’d opened the shower door again, only this time slipped out.

As if in slow motion, he saw the snake, the message on the mirror: Die whore bitch!

Most of all, his focus centered on Miranda, clinging to the wall while she inched her way toward the bathroom counter. Why?

His gaze skipped to the reason—his gun.

Heart stopped, incapable of breathing, he was helpless to do anything but watch while she painstakingly covered the last few inches to her destination. Once there, never taking her eyes off the snake, she backed onto the counter, planting her hands against it to push herself up.

While drawing up her legs, she knocked off a potted orchid. Terracotta shattered, dirt flew. The flower’s stem hit the snake, pissing him off, driving him into a whipping, striking frenzy.

Jackson watched helplessly while Miranda lunged for his gun.

She pointed to shoot but got no results.

“Hit the safety!” His shouting only further incited the snake’s rage.

Jackson slammed the shower door shut just before watching Miranda push herself to a standing position, backing into the corner where the counter met the wall.

Unable to see through the shower door’s frosted glass, all he could do was pray.

One gunshot rang out, then another and another until blood splattered his view.

Jackson exploded from the shower to get to Miranda.

Half of the snake was still writhing.

He hopped backwards when she shot again and again.

“Babe! Stand down. It’s dead.”

Pounding on the suite’s double doors changed to a splintering sound when Robert burst through. “What happened? Where’s Miranda?”

Trembling head-to-toe, crying, she dropped the gun clattering to the porcelain sink. “Daddy…”

Genevieve followed only to scream.

The snake’s blood was everywhere from the walls to ceiling. Even Miranda had been splattered.

“Call 9-1-1!” Robert shouted.

Jackson tore a towel from the nearest rack, sidestepping the snake’s remains to gesture for Miranda to come toward him. He soon recognized shock had her physically incapable of moving, so he leaned forward, clamping his hands to her hips, drawing her forward only to heft her potato-sack-style into his arms. With her safely down from the counter, he lowered her feet to the bloodied floor, then wrapped a towel around her to preserve what remained of her dignity.

Only after taking another towel for himself did Jackson finally exhale.

From outside came the faint sound of sirens.

“What happened?” Robert asked again.

Jackson gave him the highlight reel featuring Miranda’s heroics.

He held her close, kissing the crown of her head.

“I followed your advice to the letter,” Robert said. “There wasn’t a single unlocked door or window.”

Nodding, Jackson said, “I believe you. Which means someone else in your inner circle has to be behind this.”

“There is no one else,” Genevieve said, stepping up behind her husband. “Only our chef. And Betsy. But she’s just a slip of a girl. There’s no way she could ever catch a snake—let alone bring one into our home. Maybe it got in through a vent?”

“Where’s Betsy?” Jackson asked. “I have a feeling her innocence is an act.”

“She lives in the garage apartment,” Robert said. “I can’t recall seeing her since she brought your clean clothes to the entry hall.”

Jackson gave Miranda an extra fierce hug. “I love you. Stay close to your mom and dad. Judging by the sirens, Reginald should be here soon.”

“W-where are you going? Don’t leave me.”

“I’m sorry, babe,” he reached to the sink for his gun, “but as soon as I find pants, it’s time to once and for all catch this killer…”

Fearing Betsy may be already making an escape, Jackson didn’t waste time with shoes or a shirt, but he was done with having mosquitoes on his junk. He ran through the house and out the front door just as police cars’ red and blue strobes could be seen at the end of the quiet street.

The sirens were dulled by a rising fog.

Keeping to the shadows, Jackson approached the garage, holding his gun at the ready.

He took the stairs two at a time, pausing on the landing to peer through a screen door into an empty living room/kitchen combo. Shit. Was she already gone? He opened the door to get the full view of a freak show. The space was ordinary enough—sofa, loveseat, coffee table combo—until catching sight of the wall behind him that was lined with glass terrariums stacked six high.

Each enclosure housed writhing death. Dozens—maybe hundreds of cottonmouths.

Wincing, Jackson mumbled, “This bitch is twisted.”

Every inch of his skin crawling, he walked deeper into the apartment’s gloom, holding his gun in front of him, praying there was enough ammo in the clip that he could finish this mission. Make no mistake, if it came down to it, he would kill Betsy. But he didn’t want to. Perverse curiosity meant needing to question her, to finally get answers about the nightmare game she’d been playing.

Inching soundlessly toward the bedroom, Jackson held his breath. Would she be there?

His next step creaked a plank in the hardwood floor.

He froze, finally daring to breathe when the only sound was the rapid-fire thud of his pulse in his ears.

But then all hell broke loose. Betsy shot out from the side of a tall dresser, screaming like a banshee before shoving him out of her way. He popped off a shot, but it went rogue.

In the precious seconds it took to regain his composure, she darted for the front door, but not before pausing to push over the tower of snakes. The precariously stacked terrariums fell like dominoes, unleashing an unholy hissing, striking hell. Barefoot, he couldn’t be sure if he ran over broken glass or was being repeatedly bit.

Laser-focused on catching this little bitch, he burst through the screen door and charged down the stairs.

Swirling fog combined with the cop cars’ blue and red strobes made the scene ever more chaotic.

He paused, scanning the shadows for her.

There—twenty feet from a compact car he saw her on the ground, crawling like a spider to avoid detection. Too bad for her there was no way in hell she was avoiding him.

Jackson took off running, ignoring the screaming pain in his feet along with the very real possibility that he’d been hit by more than one of her slithering soldiers.

She was just rising to make a dash for the car when he lunged for her, slamming all his weight against her to land with a hard thud against the blacktop driveway.

“Jackson!” Miranda cried.

Moments later, it was over.

Surrounded by gun-wielding officers, Jackson pushed himself off the pint-sized fury. She was crazed, spitting and hissing every bit as ferociously as one of her pets.

Jackson wrapped his arms around Miranda, not just because he had to hold her, but because he needed the physical support. Something wasn’t right. All of the sudden he felt hot and cold. Had a minty metallic taste in his mouth. “I need an ambulance—now. Cottonmouth bites…”

“Help!” she cried when he slipped from her hold. “Someone please help!”

Damn snake must’ve hit a vein. The poison rocketed through his system.

“I hope you die!” Betsy shouted. “Both of you! I watched you together and wanted to puke! David loves you, but I warned him you were a whore, and see? All along, I was right. He’s a fool for not believing me. For not loving me… With Mark’s money, all our dreams were coming true, but there was always you.” She spit at Miranda. “Precious Princess Miranda. I hate you!”

“That’s enough,” Reginald said. “Get her out of here. What’s the progress on that ambulance?”

“ETA three minutes, sir.”

Jackson felt himself slipping.

Was this the end? I love you, he wanted to tell Miranda, but his mouth no longer worked.

His limbs felt heavy and yet his muscles twitched with convulsions. After years spent playing hide-and-seek with the grim reaper, Jackson realized he’d been found…